The Tasting
by Salomedancing
Summary: Mrs. Darling dislikes living in the chocolate factory. And things are getting worse when she unexpectedly meets Mr. Wonka in a deserted corridor.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Roald Dahl, I just play with them for fun.

AN: Thanks to Japanpeterpan for beta.

Part 1

It took Mrs. Bucket quite a long time to admit to herself that she didn't like living at Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. It was so much that was nice about it. Great even. All the struggle of just staying alive was gone, her family grew fit and healthy and happy around her. For the first time in years she and her husband could spend time together without worries and fear. Her darling Charlie glowed from happiness, and how could she not love that?

When she finally did admit it, she had to figure out what it was about the factory that made her detest it so. The factory itself wasn't bad, it was quite exciting, actually. And though the Oompa-Loompas were somewhat unnerving, she didn't really mind them either. No, what really bothered her was the owner himself, Willy Wonka.

It wasn't anything in particular she could point out. It had something to do with his smile that never really seemed to reach his eyes. Or the odd, fragmented way he talked. And most of all his bright eyes, that always, always seemed to stare at her, whenever they were in the same room. But he had never been anything other than polite to her, so- being a practical woman, she decided to ignore her feelings of discomfort, and get on with her life.

That become very hard the day she met Wonka in one of the factory's many corridors. Not really met, he was suddenly walking beside her, which startled her quite a bit.

"I never had a mother." As a greeting that was somewhat unexpected, and Mrs Bucket found herself loss for words. "Well, of course I had, but not for long. I don't remember her. Tell me, is the way you greet Charlie customary for mothers?"

"I guess... Yes, I would say so."

"Ah." There was a silence as they continued walking. "My father never did that."

"Did what?"

"You know." Wonka touched his cheek briefly. "Gave me a peck, I think you would call it. I never had one in my life. So when I noticed that you do that to Charlie I thought it might be a mother thing."

"Oh, it can be, but you can do that to all sorts of people. It's a way of greeting someone."

The whole conversation confused Mrs. Bucket. She had never though much of such a small thing that she did numerous times every day, but Wonka seemed to give it importance. He stopped, which forced her to stop as well, though she would rather have left him. He fixated his odd eyes on her, tilting his head a bit to the side as he stared at her.

"Can you give me one?"

At first Mrs. Bucket wanted to refuse, but then she thought that it was really a very harmless request. Her kind heart felt sorry for a man who had never been kissed on the cheek, so she leaned forward and quickly planted one on his cheekbone. His skin felt very soft under her lips, and for a

moment the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted over her. Wonka touched his cheek in a puzzled way.

"That felt nice. Very nice, actually. Now, am I to return it?"

Mrs. Bucket could not help but laugh a small nervous laugh. She really didn't want that, but she could not find any way of politely refusing him, so she nodded. Wonka planted a kiss on her face, lingering much longer than she had, and his lips felt hot. Mrs. Bucket could feel herself blush, and when he took a step back, she tried to resume her walk. But he moved to block her, and when Mrs. Bucket stepped back, she found herself standing against the wall.

"That was nice as well. But I wonder. You don't greet Mr. Bucket this way. I've noticed that you kiss him on the mouth."

"Yes. He is my husband after all."

"I never kissed anyone on the mouth either." Wonka's voice grew thoughtful. "I never wanted to. But I like your mouth. It looks like a rosebud."

Mrs. Bucket started to lift her hands in a defensive gesture, but before she had time, Wonka did kiss her. She pushed against his body, but found her wrists trapped in his hands, surprisingly strong hands, in a grip she could not break free from. Pressed against the wall she could not get away, and

after a moment she stopped struggling.

He kissed her slowly, inexpertly, but very thoroughly. It occurred to Mrs Bucket that he was tasting her, when his tongue forced its way into her mouth. When he released her she was short of breath, and would have run, if he had only let go of her hands as well. Wonka gave her a bright smile.

"That was nice too. You taste wonderful, Mrs. Bucket. I wonder, I really wonder..." He broke off, and kissed her on the cheek again, this time letting his tongue sweep over her skin. "You know, you don't taste the same there. Do you taste differently all over?"

Abruptly he started to walk, still holding one of her wrists so Mrs. Bucket was forced to half-run to keep up with his stride.

"It gives me an idea... I need to think this over. Mrs. Bucket, do you care to wait for me in the waiting room?"

Mrs. Bucket was just going to open her mouth to protest against the whole thing, when they reached a door, neatly labelled "Waiting-room", and before she managed to say a word, Wonka had opened it and ushered her in.

"I'll see you in a little while," he said as parting words, before he closed the door and left her alone.

Mrs. Bucket found herself in a small room, containing bare white wall, floor and ceiling, a white chair, a white table, and a white door. When she opened it she found a small white toilet. When she turned around she saw that the door she had come in through was not visible anymore. But on the table there

was now a mug of cocoa, a plate of pastries, and some magazines. She screamed for a while, pounding on where she thought the door must be, but as no one acknowledged her predicament, she eventually sat down to do what Wonka had told her to, to wait. /lj-cut

It took Mrs. Bucket quite a long time to admit to herself that she didn't like living at Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. It was so much that was nice about it. Great even. All the struggle of just staying alive was gone, her family grew fit and healthy and happy around her. For the first time in years she and her husband could spend time together without worries and fear. Her darling Charlie glowed from happiness, and how could she not love that?

When she finally did admit it, she had to figure out what it was about the factory that made her detest it so. The factory itself wasn't bad, it was quite exciting, actually. And though the Oompa-Loompa's was somewhat unnerving, she didn't really mind them either. No, what really bothered her was the owner himself, Willy Wonka.

It wasn't anything in particular she could point out. It had something to do with his smile that never really seemed to reach his eyes. Or the odd, fragmented way he talked. And most of all his bright eyes, that always, always seemed to stare at her, whenever they were in the same room. But he had never been anything else than polite to her, so- being a practical woman, she decided to ignore her feelings of discomfort, and get on with her life.

That become very hard the day she met Wonka in one of the factories many corridors. Not really met, he was suddenly walking beside her, which startled her quite a bit.

"I never had a mother." As a greeting that was somewhat unexpected, and Mrs. Bucket found herself loss for words. "Well, of course I had, but not for long. I don't remember her. Tell me, is the way you greet Charlie customary for mother's?"

"I guess... Yes, I would say so."

"Ah." There was a silence as they continued walking. "My father never did that."

"Did what?"

"You know." Wonka touched his cheek briefly. "Gave me a peck, I think you would call it. I never had one in my life. So when I noticed that you do that to Charlie I thought it might be a mother-thing."

"Oh, it can be, but you can do that to all sorts of people. It's a way of greeting someone."

The whole conversation confused Mrs. Bucket. She had never though much of such a small thing that she did numerous times every day, but Wonka seemed to give it importance. He stopped, which forced her to stop as well, though she would rather had left him. He fixated her with his odd eyes, tilting his head a bit to the side as he stared at her.

"Can you give me one?

At first Mrs. Bucket wanted to refuse, but then she thought that it was really a very harmless question. Her kind heart felt sorry for a man who had never been kissed on the cheek, so she leaned forward and quickly planted one, on his cheekbone. His skin felt very soft under her lips, and for a moment the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafter over her. Wonka touched his cheek in a wondrous way.

"That felt nice. Very nice, actually. Now, am I to return it?"

Mrs. Bucket could not help to laugh a small nervous laugh. She really didn't want that, but she could not find any way of politely refusing him, so she nodded. Wonka planted a kiss on her face, lingering much longer than she had, and his lips felt hot. Mrs. Bucket could feel herself blush, and when he took a step back, she tried to resume her walk. But he moved to block her, and when Mrs. Bucket stepped back, she found herself standing against the wall.

"That was nice as well. But I wonder. You don't greet Mr. Bucket this way. I've noticed that you kiss him on the mouth."

"Yes. He is my husband after all."

"I never kissed anyone on the mouth." Wonka's voice grew thoughtful. "I never wanted to. But I like your mouth. It looks like a rosebud."

Mrs. Bucket started to lift her hands in a warding gesture (I'm not sure if you can say that, but I can't come up with anything else.), but before she had time, Wonka did kiss her. She pushed against his body, but found her wrists trapped in his hands, surprisingly strong hands, in a grip she could not break free from. Pressed against the wall she could not get away, and after a moment she stopped struggling.

He kissed her slowly, inexpertly, very throughoutly. It occurred to Mrs. Bucket that he was tasting her, when his tongue forced it's way into her mouth. When he released her she was short of breath, and would have run, if he had only let go of her hands as well. Wonka gave her a bright smile.

"That was nice too. You taste wonderful, Mrs. Bucket. I wonder, I really wonder..." He broke off, and kissed her on the cheek again, this time letting his tongue sweep over her skin. "you know, you don't taste the same there. Do you taste differently all over?"

Abruptly he started to walk, still holding one of her wrists so Mrs. Bucket was forced to half-run to keep up with his stride.

"It gives me an idea... I need to think this over. Mrs. Bucket, do you care to wait for me in the waiting room?"

Mrs. Bucket was just going to open her mouth to protests against the whole thing, when they reached a door, neatly labelled "Waiting-room", and before she managed to say a word, Wonka had opened the door and ushered her in.

"I'll see you in a little while," he said as parting words, before he closed the door and left her alone.

Mrs. Bucket found herself in a small room, containing bare white wall, floor and ceiling, a white chair, a white table, and a white door. When she opened it she found a small white toilet. When she turned around she saw that the door she had came in through was not visible anymore. But on the table there was now a mug of coca, a plate of pastries, and some magazines. She screamed for a while, pounding on where she thought the door must be, but as no one acknowledged her predicament, she eventually sat down to do what Wonka had told her to, to wait.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

It was impossible to say how long time passed for Mrs. Bucket. She felt it was hours, and she was more than a little relieved when a door was opened. Though she was quite sure that it wasn't the same opening she had came in through, she nevertheless quickly rose and walked out.

The adjoining room was rather dark, and as she came from a brightly lit room she could not see anything to mention at first. Especially since the door silently closed behind her. Mr. Wonka's voice reached her from nearby, and when she squinted in the direction of the sound she could make out his form is the dark.

"Come out, come out," he said hurriedly."You gave me such a marvelous idea earlier, but I'm afraid I need to put it to a test. I'm sure you will be delighted to help me."

"I'll be happy to help you," Mrs. Bucket answered slowly."Some other time. Right now I need to get back to the house, it must be close to dinner time by now."

"Oh no. There's no time, no time at all to wait. An idea has to be acted upon at once, or it may disappear. Now, I've been thinking about this all afternoon, and I assure you that this cannot be delayed anymore."

He steered Mrs. Bucket out into the room, but the dim light made it impossible for her to make out what kind of room it was. It was much warmer than the rest of the factory- which already was overheated in her opinion. Mr. Wonka continued talking, and Mrs. Bucket found it difficult to break into the stream of words.

"The making of chocolate, well, every kind of candy, is an artform. It requires patience and imagination, and I'm always on the lookout for new ideas. And this idea is quite different. I'm sure that when you eat chocolate, you have noticed that it isn't just the cocoa that gives it flavour. When you make chocolate there is so much more to consider.

First you have to decide what kind of cocoa bean to use, and then if you want it dark, or light. You can give it a definite taste by quite crude means- easy to make out, like chopped nuts or liqueur. Then there's the subtle notes, the barely noticeable tones that gives the taste depth. Mystique, if you want. A spice or two, the amount of sugar, what kind of sugar, yes, the spectrum is vast. Do you know, even some cheeses work very well with dark chocolate, though it may sound very weird. But it is delicious!"

That far Mrs. Bucket managed to get a word in. "That's all very well, Mr. Wonka, and quite interesting. But I can't see how I could be of any help. It's Charlie who knows about candy, not I. I have no knowledge to help you with."

"I don't require your knowledge, my dear Mrs. Bucket. I require your taste. And I'm afraid that Charlie's not quite ready to help me out here."

"My taste? What? No, this is silly, you make no sense at all. Please let me out of here, this has gone quite far enough."

It was too dark in the room, too hot, and Mr. Wonka stood too close to her, so close that she could feel the scent of him once again. She took a few steps away from him, intent to find a wall, and then hopefully a door, or at least a light switch. But she was stopped by his hand on her arm.

"It's not silly, far from it." These was no laugh in his voice, and Mrs. Bucket realised that he really was serious, very much so. "There is something about you, something I felt, which is very alluring. Enchanting. If I could capture that taste and add it to a chocolate, I think I would be able to create a masterpiece. It will not hurt you at all. Please stop being so difficult."

"I'm not being difficult! This really is ridiculous, and I demand that you let me out of here this instant."

"No, I can't do that."

The hold on her arm tightened to the same iron grip as before, and Mrs. Bucket screamed wildly as her other arm was caught as well. Her voice didn't carry though, it was muffled by the peculiar room. She was spun around and she lost what little orientation she had managed to get of the room, and Mr. Wonka used that to his advantage. Though not really taller than she, he was considerably stronger, and she found her arms be stretched over her head and something snapped close over her wrists. When he let go of her she was still held in place by something that was soft, but as unyielding as his hands.

"I tell you, Mrs. Bucket, I will not hurt you. I just want to be able to define you, and how your taste varies."

This was all so outrageous, and Mrs. Bucket continued to shout, hoping that someone would hear her. She was also more than a little bit afraid, despite Mr. Wonka's mild voice and assurances. She was quieted when he kissed her again. A firm grip on her chin made her unable to turn her head away, and he kissed her several times. Each time he lingered, letting his tongue explore her mouth very thoroughly- and had Mrs. Bucket been in a mindset to appreciate them, she would have. Instead she continued to protest as soon as he released her, and for the first time Mr. Wonka seemed a bit irritated.

"You have to keep quiet. I can't work if you break my concentration all the time."

"This is not work. This is an outrage, an..."

That was as far as she got when Mr. Wonka shoved his handkerchief in her mouth, and then used her own scarf to tie it in place.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bucket, but if you can't keep your voice down, this is the only way."

He proceeded to kiss, then lick her face, working himself down her throat, then her earlobes, finding a sensitive spot behind her ear that made her shiver despite the stifling heat of the room. Finding movement and voice restrained, Mrs. Bucket had no choice but to endure. He really wasn't hurting her, his lips and tongue moved softly over her skin, his breath adding moisture and warmth.

Then he suddenly stopped and moved away from her. Mrs. Bucket turned her head, but though her eyes had grown used to the dark, she could still not make out any detail, and couldn't see what he picked up from a nearby table. When he retuned, and placed something cool against the skin of her neck she screamed into the gag, as she believed he was placing a knife to her throat, and all his reassurance of not hurting her had just been lies.

But nothing happened, he just gently tugged at her blouse, and then she heard the snip-snip of a pair of scissors closing. He was carefully cutting away her clothes, and though it made poor Mrs. Bucket blush wildly, he did not cut her even accidentally as he worked through the layers of fabric.

Though the recent good times had put some flesh on her frame, the cold and poor years of her marriage and got her into the habit of dressing in grey and formless clothes, suitable to hide and warm a body that had too long been malnourished. Mrs. Bucket still dressed in several layers, and it took Mr. Wonka a little time to remove them all. When he finally was done, and Mrs. Bucket was naked she was shivering, though she was not cold at all. The situation was so inappropriate, but she could no longer protest in anyway, and she had to accept that whatever Mr. Wonka had in mind, she would have to take it.


	3. Chapter 3

After Wonka had shed the last of Mrs. Bucket's clothes, he disappeared from her view. She turned her head and caught a glimpse of him standing behind her. Then she could feel his breath waft over her neck, and then he kissed her there. 

Slowly, very slowly he started to lick her back. His tongue was warm, but the moisture left on her skin felt cool. Mrs. Bucket shivered and moaned, but Wonka continued undisturbed. His hair fell forward, a silky touch on her skin, and she became aware that her body responded to this unhurried touch. She had never felt anything like it- Mr. Bucket's embraces had always been most welcome, but he had never ventured his tongue anywhere other than her mouth.

Now Mr. Wonka's mouth moved over her skin, it seemed that every inch, every hollow, in her skin was to be touched by the softest of touches. First warmth and pressure, ever so lightly, and then the tongue left to explore other parts, leaving a not unpleasant coolness, and a mark of moisture.

Down, down, now and then not only the tongue but a soft whisper of hair against her skin, a skin that seemed to grow more sensitive the longer time passed. Down over her buttocks, in between them- she bucked wildly away from this, and then further down, until he had finally reached her feet. Then the touch disappeared, and Mrs. Bucket found that her body missed it, even if she hoped that it was over now.

"Are you comfortable, Mrs. Bucket?" Mr. Wonka's voice came unexpectedly level with her face, and she turned her head sharply. Despite the dim light she could see his strange eyes clearly- they almost seemed to glow. "It was a bit of a rush job, and I hope that it doesn't chafe you, or something like that."

She heard a slight whirr and the tension in her uplifted arm went away, and she could lower them so she could see her hands just before her face. The thing enclosing her wrists seemed to be made of rubber, and though she could not slip out of their grip, she was not too uncomfortable. Mr. Wonka ran a gloved finger over her hands, nodding.

"No, you seem fine. Good. We don't want you to get sore."

Then he bowed his head, and kissed the hollow of her throat, and Mrs. Bucket closed her eyes. It didn't seem that her ordeal was over, and now he was quickly approaching parts of her body that she really didn't want anyone other than her husband to be near. She was embarrassingly aware that her nipples were hard, and when the tongue finally snaked over them, she could no longer deny how aroused she was despite herself. The delicate caress was too much, she could not withstand it, and as the licking went down again, her whole body shook.

However, when Mr. Wonka reached her navel, Mrs. Bucket firmly pressed her legs together. She was not going to suffer that seductive mouth on her most private place, and even when she could feel a burst of pleasure when she could feel him lap over her, she pressed her legs even closer together.

There was a pause- Mrs. Bucket willed herself not to look down, but started out in the surround dusk. Then she jumped when something cold, and definitely very hard touched one of her thighs.

The cane. He was using his cane to pry her legs apart, and though as unhurriedly as anything else he had done, the pressure of the hard wood proved too much too fight. When he had succeeded she could feel the knob of the cane press against her, and though the gap between her legs was not large, it was large enough for Mr. Wonka to sneak his tongue over her.

It was too much, the pleasure that had been mounting for such a long time grew rapidly stronger, coiling in her stomach and wanting to be freed. It was no use to resist it anymore, Mrs. Bucket could not stop the heat that engulfed her, and her hips moved to meet the movements of ten tongue. Suddenly she realised that the knob was not so much pressing against her than inside her, and for a moment she recalled that the handle was much larger than her husband's cock, and then she could feel herself stretch- almost painful, but not quite, and then she came, finally succumbing totally to the ministrations of Mr. Wonka.

For how long she couldn't tell, the feeling burst inside her, ebbed away and then returned even stronger, back and forth in a way she never had experienced before, and never thought was possible. Eventually it died away, leaving just a faint echo in her body, and she came to her sense much enough to notice that was happening outside herself.

Mr. Wonka was still kneeling in front of her, resting his forehead against her leg. It was, she realised, the first time he touched her with his bare skin, apart from his mouth. Mrs. Bucket wasn't sure what he was doing, though. He had stopped licking her, and she thought he was breathing as hard as she. But after a quick glance down, she firmly shut her eyes. She didn't want to know what he was doing.

At length he rose, and Mrs. Bucket was freed. First she stood perfectly still, before she lowered her arms, carefully moving them back and forth to ease the stiffness, so she could remove her gag. Then she looked up and saw Mr. Wonka standing nearby, looking as neat as if nothing had happened between them. Suddenly everything she had felt in the last hour was replaced by anger. How dared the little megalomaniac treat her like this! The rage engulfed her, making her feel warm and glowing, and when she spoke she could hear it as a tremor in her voice.

"You better start looking for another heir to your precious factory, because I, and my family, are leaving here today."

"Taking Charlie away?"

"Oh yes! As far from you as possible."

"But you can't." Mr Wonka laughed one of his high nervous little laughs. "I simply can't permit that, Mrs. Bucket. I just can't allow it."

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him, once again surprising her with his strong grip.

"I can't do without Charlie. Absolutely not. And surely you understand that I need your help? You can't possibly think that I can evolve a new taste after just this time? Chocolate making is, as I believe I have already told you, a serious task. I need to do this again. Several times, most likely"

Until now Mrs. Bucket hadn't been truly afraid. Uncomfortable, yes, puzzled and wondering, a bit scared, but not really frightened. But now, in Wonka's unbreakable grip combined with his cheerful voice, she did grow scared, and she tried to break free.

"Let go of me! No! You have no right to do this!"

Mr. Wonka, however, didn't seem to be listening to her. "I think you need to go back to the waiting room. Just for a little while, you understand, until I can find a better way to accommodate you."

"You can't lock me up," Mrs. Bucket protested as she was brought back to the little white room, wholly unable to stop him. "Charlie needs me. It must be dinnertime soon, and I will be missed."

Wonka turned in the doorway and gave her a blinding smile.

"Mothers disappear."

"But Charlie will miss me. He'll be miserable. You don't want Charlie to be sad, do you?"

Wonka frowned a little. "True. I don't want that."

Mrs. Bucket took a step forward, thinking that she had finally gotten through to him, but the door closed and was gone. Then Wonka's voice floated through the walls.

"Don't worry, my dear, dear Mrs. Bucket. You will soon see Charlie again, as soon as I have seen to one or two little changes. Fathers disappear too, you know. Sometimes very suddenly."

His voice faded away and left Mrs. Bucket in silence. She leaned her hot face against the cool surface of the wall, fear running through her. Exactly what was going to happen to her husband the next time he met Mr. Wonka in one of the factories many corridors.

The End


End file.
